


Southern Belle

by lettalady



Series: Blips and Blurbs [31]
Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:36:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26485039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettalady/pseuds/lettalady
Relationships: Tom Hiddleston/Reader, Tom Hiddleston/You
Series: Blips and Blurbs [31]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1925065
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Southern Belle

**Y** ou’re freezing on this rooftop bar but there’s no way in hell you’re suggesting cutting the night short. You’re out with _him_. Ok you’re out with a group, but he’s there – a head taller than the rest: Tom Motherfuckin’ Hiddleston - in all his curly golden haired glory.

You’ve had a few drinks so your mind is buzzing - but clear enough to follow along with the chatter of the group consisting mostly of Brits. You’re not keeping up drink for drink with the rest of them, but your steady consumption is helping to distract from the cold. If only it would help stop you from shivering. Your lips are pleasantly tingly but the rest of you – you wish your skin would get with the program, that the drink would render you immune to the chilly night air.

And then Tom’s twinkling eyes pull away from the group to settle on you and the goosebumps on your arms redouble in strength. “Alright, Belle?”

You grin at his use of the nickname. Everyone – even, apparently, Tom – has taken to referring to you by the term of endearment: Belle - The Southern Belle of the group. It’s doubtful if some of them even know your given name. So you have a bit of a twang to your speech, particularly when you get angry, or flustered, and of course when you drink. You’re doing your best to keep your mouth shut and enjoy the night’s company without drawing their drunken teasing.

He’s wearing several layers. Of course he’s not feeling the breeze on the rooftop. If you knew him any better you’d shuffle over and try to leech from him some residual warm. As things stand, you keep your distance. "I’m fine.”

“You’re shivering.”

To your combined mortification and delight he unzips the comfy looking black sweater he’s wearing to reveal the white shirt and vest combo underneath. These days he’s usually dressed in such form fitting attire – always ready for a photo opp. He should keep his sweater… without it he’ll be the one shivering.

“No. really. I’m fine.” You reach out to block his attempted offering, snagging his wrist just where his shirtsleeve ends.

He blinks when your fingers make contact with his skin. “Wow. No, you’re definitely wearing m’jumper.”

“Wait. Your what?” You giggle at his word choice. To your mind jumpers are a thing from your childhood – a combination of dress and overall. You release his wrist and allow him to put the sweater over your shoulders. Oh blessed warmth. And scent of masculinity. And close proximity of the man that you’ve been keeping a cautious distance from…

He grins, his large hands lingering over your upper arms a moment, before he turns back to his drink. “Hmmm, so that’s how it is?”

You purse your lips, trying not to laugh but you’re tickled now and can’t help but express it. “Sorry. Yes. Very chivalrous of you. But yes…”

He props his elbow up on the table, sufficiently blocking out the rest of the group. The small round tables on the rooftop are just the right height to do magical things with Tom’s silhouette as he rests his weight on the table edge. He’s all smooth lines and fun angles that pull your eyes exactly in the direction you don’t want them to go.

“The term you’d prefer for said item of clothing?” He’s deliberately avoiding naming the article of clothing now.

“Sweater.” For some reason you say it slowly, as though teaching objects to a child.

What are you doing? Flirting with him? Maybe you’ve had more to drink than you thought. Maybe you don’t care.

“Anyway, you’re the one that’s going to freeze, now. That vest and fitted shirt?” You wiggle your index finger in circles to indicate his torso, “That getup can’t provide much warmth.”

“Vest?” He wrinkles his forehead and those ever expressive eyebrows shoot up and form curious arches. He straightens, standing tall before you, and takes a gulp of his drink. “Ha – ok we’re playing this game, Belle. Say it with me:” he tips his fingertips inwards to point towards his navel and the ever-so-lovely article of clothing, “waistcoat.”

You’re having fun with this, far too entertained by the friendly flirtation to let it go so quickly. You smack your lips together, opening your mouth with a _pop!_ and then reply, “Vest.”

Vest. Waistcoat. Whatever you want to call it, the one Tom is wearing tonight is issuing forth all sorts of wild imaginings in your head. Beautiful stitching that accents the material perfectly. And so many buttons – are there are half dozen? More? Your eyes trail down to count before you remember yourself and dart your attention back up again.

He has missed the fleeting moment of distraction, thankfully. He’s lost in thought, evidently racking his brain for another set of words to compare. “There’s the obvious…” He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and holds it up for your inspection. “Mobile.”

You just shake your head in response.

He points to the just-visible-through-the-window television that sits above and to the side of the bartender’s station. “Telly?”

“For television? Essentially the same.” You say, mock-scolding him.

“Plaster for-“

“Band-aid. Everybody knows that one.”

His smile grows, “Everyone? I don’t know about that, Belle. I usually get curious looks and questions about broken bones when I use the word around other Yanks.”

“Ooooh just say Americans, Tom. Calling a Southerner a Yank?” You suck in your breath through your teeth and scrunch up your nose. “Bad form.”

“How about one that made my mates chuckle endlessly when we were younger?”

You take a sip of your drink and nod, knowing the term before he even finishes with the statement. Your nearly numb lips and his flirtatious manner draw further reply from you before your brain has a chance to halt the words, “Rubber, meaning condom in the States, for eraser. Moving on from innocent objects to something revealing your dirty mind, Hiddleston. And you’ve jumped into slang.”

Teasing him will just encourage him, which – to be frank – is exactly what you want.

“There’s a world of fun if we jump into slang.”

Oh that Cheshire grin.

Dangerous man.

“Ok – what else…” Giving up on the immediate surroundings his eyes drift slowly over your outfit as he searches out the next thing to highlight. You feel your cheeks burn accompanying the close, lingering, inspection, “There’s pants, trousers, and knickers …”

Finally the conversation has caught the ear of someone else at the table. “What was that? What are you two talking about?”

You want to busy yourself with an overly large swallow of your drink but find that your glass is empty. You glance sideways at Tom. He’s had the same thought, leaving you to answer the query – hiding his smile behind his glass.

“He’s making fun of me y’all.”

Y’all. That really just came out of your mouth.

Facepalm imminent.


End file.
